Chapter 8

We were just starting a nine-game home stand and had two more with Detroit. The next night, Sandy wasn't at the game, but I managed to scratch out one hit in four trips. We won again -- no thanks to my limited offensive prowess.

In the final game of the Detroit series, I took the collar. Just when I thought all was well, I went oh-for-five. We lost that one, and I deserved some of the credit for the no-show of the Orioles' offense.

I called Sandy after the game, even though it was already close to midnight.

"Did you hear what happened?"

"Yeah. I listened to the radio."

"I went oh-for-five!"

"Yeah."

"Jesus, Sandy!"

"Hey, nobody ever said you were going to hit every night."

"I'm used to hitting every night!"

"Bullshit. Who do you think you are, Joe DiMaggio?"

The great Yankee, Joe DiMaggio, holds the all-time record for hits in consecutive games. He got at least one hit in each of 56 regular-season games. Incredible.

Joe DiMaggio -- much like Theodore Samuel Williams -- was a far greater hitter than I ever hoped to be. Like Williams, Joltin' Joe hit for power as well as for average. His consecutive games record -- like Ted's .406 batting average -- was considered damned near unapproachable.

Both records had remained unthreatened for well over 60 years.

I knew that nobody was ever going to call me "Joltin' Josh." But I also knew what I could do. I could hit singles. And a double, now and then, just to break the monotony. And, yes, I had entertained thoughts of DiMaggio's record, as well as Ted's. Why the hell not? Until the beaning, at least, I had been spraying base hits around like Ty Cobb on steroids. The only reason I wasn't still hitting over .400 in late May was that a funny thing had happened to me after I'd gotten my cheekbone smashed. Something -- I wasn't sure just what -- was off. Just a little off, but enough that my hitting had become unreliable.

I really thought that Sandy had brought me out of it with her Magic Box, but now -- I wasn't so sure.

"You still there?" She startled me. It was Sandy, still on the line, waiting for the answer to her question about who did I think I was. I guess my mind had wandered while I'd been giving it some thought.

"I'm here. Sorry. I was thinking."

"Thinking about whether you were Joe DiMaggio?"

"Thinking about whether I am cured or not."

"You aren't 'cured, '" Sandy said. "There's nothing to be cured of. You are no longer going to flinch when the ball comes at you. That's all."

"I went oh-for-five!" I repeated.

"Did you flinch?"

"Fuck, I don't know! But I never felt like I was flinching, even before your Magic Box thing."

Sandy giggled. "Don't call it my magic box," she said. "That sounds dirty!"

"Well, it sounds better than calling it your Coffin Treatment," I said, smiling into the phone.

"You're going to be OK," Sandy said. "Just be patient."

"I don't want to be your patient," I said. "I want to see you, socially."

"I said be patient," Sandy repeated. "Patient, as in 'enduring, '. As in, exercising some forbearance. As in -- Hang! Patience, my son!"

"We're playing Kansas City tomorrow night," I said. "How about you coming down to the game?"

"You think all I've got to do is go to baseball games?" she said.

"I thought you liked baseball."

"I do like baseball. I actually pay my own money to go to a game, three, maybe four times a year. I'm just not some kind of fanatic."

"You don't have to be. Just come to the KC game tomorrow night. You don't have to pay. I'll leave tickets for you and your friend, at the Will Call window. Please."

"OK. But just leave some regular comps. Don't spend your own money on front-row seats again. You're not a millionaire, you know. They're paying you the league minimum."

"The league minimum isn't exactly $5.50 an hour," I said.

"Yeah, yeah, you're rich. What did you make last year, in Triple A?"

"I don't want to talk about that," I said.